


Citadel Rat Rod

by bethagain



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Gen, Life at the Citadel, Mad Max Secret Santa, Rat Rods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 06:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5486303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethagain/pseuds/bethagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world may be in pieces, but they can still make something beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Citadel Rat Rod

**Author's Note:**

> A little stocking stuffer to go with fibonaccisinterruption's gift, for Mad Max Secret Santa.

They brought back pieces like secret treasure. 

The squared-off bumper from a Mercedes 350SL, rust more than chrome. Two hours to bang the dents out. Two days of buffing and sanding to get it smooth, done by a young man with metal shavings on his skin and a glow of pride lighting his face.

The curved hood from a Holden FJ sedan, red paint faded but otherwise miraculously unblemished. Brought in by a raiding party, lifted up with their other takings, hidden in a stack of twisted fenders and banged-up doors. Then spirited away when the workshop lights went off at the end of the day. 

A GM small block V8 engine, sand-filled, dragged behind a War Boy coming in on a walk of shame. When he started breaking it down to clean it, the Pups gathered round to watch. Soon the whole garage was stopping by after shifts with oil-covered rags and helping hands.

There were wheels from a Thunderbird, pulled from a wreck so fierce, they were the only things still recognizable. 

A chassis found buried in the sand, its other parts long since rusted or salvaged or carried away to become armor or cookware or shelter. 

The back end of a pickup with the word Nissan stamped on the gate.

Fenders, hood, muffler, doors, windshield, tires, carried in piece by piece and taken, under cover of chores or after hours, to a cavern far from the garage. 

The desert was slow to give up what it took, but it rewarded patience.

They kept their gift covered by a tarp during work hours. At night, the cavern was lit by the sparks from a welder, and it sang with the sounds of tools.

She knew, of course she did. But she pretended she didn't. It was good for the men to have a project, kept them busy and out of trouble when the day’s work was done. Furiosa didn't have high hopes for this one, though. She'd seen four different fenders, four styles of doors, three types of headlights. There was a car body that didn't match the chassis, and that truck bed matched nothing.

 

On the day they brought it out to show her, she steeled herself not to laugh. Whatever they had made, it would be good enough. They'd put so much time and effort in.

They rolled it out under the tarp, three men pushing it along. Did the engine even run?

“We made you something, Boss.”

“So I see.” They wouldn't expect her to smile. They’d want her stern and serious, at least until judgement had been passed. They'd want to know she genuinely liked it.

When they took the tarp off, there was no question of laughing.

How had they done this? Mismatched fenders had been reshaped to complement each other, as if having one angled, one square was how all cars should be made. The curve of the hood had been softened, so it nestled above the fenders like it belonged there. Doors had been cut down to fit, their different surfaces adding interest to the lines.

They’d channeled it just enough to make it look streamlined, but not so much that it wouldn't clear the rough desert floor.

One of the men reached in, hit the switch for the starter.

The usual noise of the garage had stopped, everyone watching this presentation of their gift. The hum of the engine was so quiet, even in the silence. Not a hitch, not a cough. Just a pure, smooth hum that went on and on.

Furiosa walked around the car. Noted the perfect welds where broken pieces has been healed together. Noted the shine of silver around the headlights. Noted how they'd turned the back gate of that pickup into a cargo hatch, seamlessly joined to the front end and fitting perfectly on the chassis.

She ran her hand along the edge of the roof, feeling how smooth the paint was. Paint was precious, they must have hoarded it for months. And where in the world had they found yellow?

She could feel the men waiting. The silence was loud over that smooth engine hum. She'd need to get this right.

She turned around, hand still on the glossy metal. Looked over the garage, at each of the men standing there, watching, waiting for her word.

It took her a moment. She was surprised to find herself blinking back tears.

Finally she managed, in a voice that didn't shake, to tell them what she thought.

“It’s chrome, boys. It's really chrome.”

Their cheers shook the garage-- backs being slapped, high fives offered, arms thrown around shoulders in celebration. She stood there, alone, in the middle of it.

Finally one of the men approached her, speaking from a respectful distance. He couldn't quite control his smile. “Glad you like it, Boss.”

And then tools were lifted again, machines growled to life, and the work of the garage was back underway.

Furiosa sat behind the wheel just long enough to turn that beautiful engine off again, before rejoining her crew to oversee the day's work. The car could wait.

If she called off work a little early that day, no one remarked on it. When she went out alone for a test drive, against her own regulations, no one said a word. And on the way back in, when she lingered in the driver's seat for a moment at the top of the lift: that was high praise, indeed.


End file.
